- My mom had two kids in her early 20s.
- She decided to test the waters about having another kid in her 40s and brought our niece over.
- My mom ended up not having a third child, and I feel a little bit guilty about it.
My mother had my brother and me in her early 20s. By the time she hit her 40s, she found herself longing for more children. Maybe she missed the sleepless nights, dirty diapers, and toys scattered everywhere. Or maybe she looked at my brother and me and thought, these two turned out great — why not try for a third?
Either way, I’ll never forget the day she decided to test the waters of motherhood again, using our young niece, Amber, as what can only be described as a trial run.
Our niece was a menace
Amber wasn’t a baby when she was used for this experiment, but at 4 years old, she was young enough to be a menace.
My brother and I, then teenagers comfortable in our world of angst and independence, were horrified. Teenagers, especially brothers and sisters, don’t agree much, but we were united in our resentment of this two-foot invader.
Amber was plopped into our living room like an alien dropped into a new galaxy, navigating her surroundings in wide-eyed wonder and touching everything she could her sticky little hands could reach, including our dad’s untouchable marble chess set.
Once Amber realized there were no real consequences, she planted her sticky fingers around the rest of the house. Her giggling little peg legs darted from room to room, including mine. That’s where I drew the line. My room was my sanctuary, protected by “DO NOT ENTER” signs that even my brother respected. Clearly, Amber couldn’t read.
“Hey!” I yelled, standing over her like a moose glaring at a mouse. “Amber’s in my room!” I shouted to my mom.
Amber looked up at me, grinning as if she hadn’t committed a capital offense. She held one of my compact discs, smearing her kid slime across the shiny surface.
“Amber is in my room!” I shouted again, with the resentment only a teenager could muster.
My mom appeared out of nowhere, scooping up Amber like a priceless artifact, not a walking tornado. “She wants to play with you, Janine,” my mom said.
We came up with a plan
Play? I was too old to play. I had adult responsibilities: researching the best new music, curating my wardrobe, decoding the mysteries of my latest crush, and, oh yeah, doing my homework. I didn’t have time for a toddler invading my space, much less my life.
Just as I regained some semblance of calm, I heard my brother’s voice echo through the house: “Mom! Amber’s interrupting my game!” He was yanking his video game controller cables from her tiny, vice-like grip, sending her tumbling to the floor in tears.
That was the moment my brother and I united against this common enemy. We devised a plan to get rid of the kid.
First, we completely ignored her. We’d walk by as she held up a toy, glancing her way but never making eye contact. Then we created “games” for her: Amber, go hide mom’s fancy candlesticks in the kitchen cupboards; Amber, toss the clean laundry into the bathtub; Amber, bring us your muddy boots — we’ll shake them out inside. It was cruel, I know. But even with every prank, Amber still came out on top.
We saw it clearly in stage three of our “master plan,” which involved recruiting the family dog to bark and scare her off. But Amber just barked back — and before we knew it, she and Buster were curled up together, napping. My mom thought it was adorable.
When we woke up the next morning, Amber was gone. Maybe it was our persistent resistance, or maybe it was the realization that teenagers are full-time jobs, but my mom decided to return Amber to her parents and focus on us, her attention-seeking teenagers.
Although Amber’s stay was brief, it had an unexpected effect: it brought my brother and me closer together. Instead of cranky teenagers, we started to act like a family again — having family dinners together instead of hiding in our rooms and even hanging out with Mom in public.
Looking back, I can’t help but feel a little guilty. Did our antics cause our mom to miss out on the chance for more motherhood adventures? Maybe. One thing is certain: I probably owe her a grandkid or two.
